we spent the day in other people's houses today. houses being sold by the bank. or that had been left as part of an estate. houses empty and alone. in one we were afraid to walk up the stairs it was so structurally questionable. and in a couple the walls were bare lathe with the plaster torn away. there were parks and a river. schools. beautiful tree lined streets. rhubarb filled gardens. old wood soaked with life. paint that is chipped and worn. spaces i immediately make warm and happy in my mind. the anticipation and the possibilities swirl in an endless loop of aesthetic battles. i need to maintain the old, the charm, the integrity. and yet make it fresh and appealing in the honesty of it's bones. we haven't found the right house yet, or maybe we have.

i'm wrapped up in a quilt. the whole family is actually. tom has gone to bed where a quilt is laid across the bed, giving the perfect weight to the duvet, winter and summer. edgar and stella are curled up together on the couch with a quilt thrown over them to help them sleep through the night. and i'm sitting with the computer on my lap under a quilt tucked around my feet and pulled up to my chin. i didn't find my way home until after 10 tonight and although i'd rather be reading right now, i only had the brain power to stare at the computer screen while i snacked on grape tomatoes and tzatziki. i'm looking forward to a full day in the studio tomorrow, making new quilts to add to the shop for mother's day. we've been working so steadily at the house that i'll need to build my sewing momentum again. but i'm eager to start compiling little colorful squares, layering them in just the right order to patch together into a quilt top. each one is always a bit of a surprise as they take shape from piles of squares, to a top, then adding the back and then finally the edge so it's fully dimensional. a surprise, yes. but also, each one is consistently warm and fresh and smiling.

this little structure pulls me to it like a motherless child. i am a spiral of emotion and fullness when i see it's loveliness with gaping holes and wood covered windows. i can't drive past. the attraction is like an untold story from a life i didn't know i lived. and it's settled deep in me refusing to let me deny it, but never letting me know exactly what it is i'll never know. so i keep being drawn to houses that are partly strong and solid and partly rotten and crumbling. there is the blush of delight, the bubble of joy, the smile spread across it's broken front like a handful of dandelions clutched and drooping in the grimy fingers of a happy child. i want to lean against the stone. i want to dream in it's shadow. but i don't want to change a thing. i love it's story. i don't want a newly primped and prettily painted story. this is the perfect distinction between pretty and beautiful. she is already beautiful, my lovely little piece of yesterday. but she is not pretty. and doesn't need to be, her beauty surpasses it. clean and smooth and fresh and shiny would polish away her serene and effortless imperfect joy.

i love this old house. an old farmhouse. with the 'new' house built behind it {it's not in the picture, but the 'new' house looks like it was built around the 1890's}. this beauty has weathered so much. watched it's generations live & work & grow & die. and it sits there with authority, even in it's weakened state. old houses develop characteristics like a face. they often smile. in rare instances i see a scowl. but it's mostly a wry little smile. i was noticing today as i drove home along country roads from lynn's baby shower, how i love the houses that sit at an angle to the road. the old houses. the old working houses. farm houses seem to work along with their inhabitants. there is an energy that invades the whole property. years ago my aunt told me that old farmhouses are most often built facing south. so they seem to twist away from the road, to find the sun.